


Five years

by EmmalinaInvendere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Mentions of Hale/McCall Pack, Mentions of Papa Stilinski - Freeform, Starting Over, Stiles leaves Beacing Hill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmalinaInvendere/pseuds/EmmalinaInvendere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles left Beacon Hills. He left his father, his pack, his alpha. And looking back at it, even today, he has to admit that leaving was the best decision he ever made. Five years are a long time to be away from home. And a long time to learn who you really are. AU with Stile leaving for NYU after being abandoned by the pack and his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five years

Five years

 

Five years.

... wow, it sounds even longer spoken out loud then it seemed to have been, living trough it.

Nearly exactly five years ago I packed my bags and left home, left behind friends who ignored me wilfully, an alpha who couldn't stand me, a pack which only used and abused me and a father who not only took the side of the wolfy things that go bum in the night instead of mine but who also seemed to take, at least in the last few weeks before my departure, great delight in drowning his sorrows in the numbing effects of alcoholic beverages. Sounds like a bad movie, huh? 

Well - That was my life. Or in the words of one of my favourite bands: ' Welcome to my life'

Or, just as perfectly fitting 'Like somehow you just don't belong'. Story. Of. My. Life.

I love that song. It's me to the fucked-up 'T'.

Nevertheless … I simply couldn't take it anymore.

So I did the only logical thing – logic! What a strange concept! - got my graduation certificate early, packed my bags, got the fuck out of that town and started a life of my own.

In other words: I got the hell out of that pathetic hell hole.

I had nothing but my school diploma, three bags full of legal documents, i.e. my birth certificate, a few pitiful clothes, my favourite books, necessary bath articles, my beloved laptop and the vocal promise from Miriam of a full ride to NYU. Thank got that she held true to her promise.

I lived for half a year by friends of mine, Adrian and Shelly, which I knew from an online RPG where we often battled together against monsters that now seemed quiet real to me. They took me in and with Miri's quick help I got my official full ride to NYU, starting that fall semester. It was never my inclination to become a free loader, so I worked in the five months spent waiting for the next semester. 

It was completely unintentional on my part to even land that particular job, but nevertheless I took it - playing escort to rich old men, desperate boys who just wanted their families to shut up and gay guys and girls, either hiding themselves or wanting to flaunt. It was ... interesting. Fuck, it is interesting. Even through I have my bachelor decree and my master in information management now, even through I successfully defended my dissertation and have a more than simply respectable job on the line and countless other offers, I still like to work as an escort from time to time. To get to know new people, to see places and be treated like something precious - to just hold intelligent and stimulating conversations ... what's there not to like?

Some people give me grieve about it, yes, okay, they call me slut and whore, ask me after my sugar daddies, honestly, I. Couldn't. Care. Less.

Because really – how do you define and measure less than nothing?

My job's amazing, and I moved out of Adrian's and Shelly's apartment into my own just before the semester started. I didn't get something big or fancy, I just wanted a nice little apartment, central and near campus, not to expensive but airy. And I love my choice - I only needed two sightings to find it, a beautiful three-room apartment with a big bath, enormous bath tub, a lot of big and spacey windows as well as a nice kitchen isle. 

I started the semester in October and was a Major in Information management with Minors in English and Mythology. Just because I left home didn't mean that the supernatural lost it's hold of fascination over me. It was a fucking busy schedule, but I nevertheless did things I learned to love, got to knew New York, made lots of really good friends and somehow formed my own mismatched little family of misfits.

I love it.

Honestly, sometimes I woke up only to think that I was still asleep, because, really, how could this feeling of happiness and contentedness be actual a huge part of my life? It really didn't add up - and maybe just because of that it was so perfect.

There' no denying that I changed. Drastically. I remember the pale little boy arriving in New York, scared and uncertain of everything. I looked a mess: sickly pale skin, skinny to the extreme considering my height, bruised and a little battered, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks, uneven buzzed darkbrown hair and tattered clothes. Nightmares followed my every moment, I was nervous and stuttered, obsessive and so high-strung that it was truly painful. Somehow I can't even really pin-point the moment I started to take care of myself again, the moment I started to put even the tiniest amount of effort in my appearance. Maybe it was the day Adrian sat me down and gave me an earful about how little I ate, the day he forced me to eat the first curly fries in months and I honestly to god moaned in ecstasy. Or it could have been the first girls night Shelly and I had, how we gave each other manicures, pedicures, masks and relaxed, how she simply sat behind me while buzzing my hai into an even line, making it look normal and not like I was homeless.

Without Shelly and Adrian, I wouldn't be alive today.

They were my saviours. They are my anchors.

My family.

It is thanks to them that I like myself, that I like the person I have become. Wicked, bitchy, mouthy – Queen (or King, whatever) of sarcasm. They taught me how to trust once again, how to love unconditionally and how to enjoy myself. They helped me to find myself, to understand what I want with my life and get on with it - I want to work with books, I want to research and help others use the information that has been researched, I like boys as well as girls and I can be a normal boy, even if I'm really freaky strange and have this teeny weeny self-esteem problem daddy never cared to address after mom passed on. 

Water, water, flow straight down, the bridge is just in view.

It's crazy. I never knew how to be true to myself, not after mom died. I ... I couldn't bear to look or act like her, didn't want to hurt my dad. It was strange, I am boy. I shouldn't want to act like my mother, at least that's what my subconscious interpreted from my fathers actions. But the one I hurt with that denial the most was myself.

It wasn't … good … okay … but it happened. Today, it won't. Today, I've learned that it's okay to be selfish from time to time.

Now... well, now even I like what I see in the mirror. I've learned to indulge myself. To let me be. I really like it. There's no shame in it. I like how my skinny body filled out and gained curves, how it is often difficult for other people to tell if I am man or woman. My waist stayed kind of small while my hips became wider, gained soft layers that added to the confusion. The feeling of sliding my long fingers down my sensitive body, feeling the soft flesh give effortlessly beneath my touch ... it's nice. I know that I'm not fat, I'm just kind of chubby in a very sensual way. Every lover I ever had loved it, so I see no reason to change. So what if my thighs are full and temptingly rounded, when it only gives shape to my plush behind? Does it matter if my hips are seductively and softly shaped, if my lovers can grip and sink they fingers into them? I don't care. And if I happen to indulge around exams, gain a bit weight and not lose it completely after the stress is over - sue me if you like. I like my body - my soft curves, my pale skin, every dark mole and delicate vein. I like my high cheek bones and dark red lips, the bow of my brow and the golden-brown of my eyes. I even like the slight curls in my honey-brown shoulder-length hair and the way the fringe shadows my eyes way more than I could ever have liked my buzz-cut. 

I'm happy and contend.

God, it still feels strange to use this words.

Happy. Contend. Satisfied.

Fucking strange.

What do I do now? I have achieved what I wanted to when I first run away - I found myself, found true friends and created a family I love and can rely on. I have an excellent education, support system and not only one but two crazy cool jobs. 

... where does this lead me to?

... ph, I don't have to decide now. The answers to this questions can come way later. For now, well ...

For now there's this hot girl waiting at my apartment door to go on a date with me, and that's abso-fucking-lutely exactly what I will do.

Five years is a long time.

A few days delay won't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Hot sex – that is a matter that can't wait.

' Well, hello dear ~ '

 

The End


End file.
